THE NANNY

I was packing for a trip to Albany the other day and while I was folding my clothes to pack, I turned on the TV, and there was a show on called: ‘The Nanny'.

If you are unfamiliar with it, it is about parents who lose control of their children and the techniques of reclaiming that control. There are such things as making charts or maps or even some kind of visual to help take the child off the tantrum and into line with reasonableness.

I found the show interesting because I was comparing my technique with the Nanny, and the techniques of Mom and Dad in raising children.

If I ever said, "I want that!" and Mom wasn't about to give it to me, she would say: "I'll give you something!" I suspected I wasn't getting it and suspected it was better to move on to the next thing I wasn't getting.

Mom was a religious woman, religious in the fact that she carried around her wooden spoon, there was no point in putting it away as she was either cooking or chasing me with it. Timeouts in TV land just didn't occur in real life, straight to the corner, I went, facing the corner and being very quiet until Mom decided I could leave it. I didn't dare cry or pout; she wouldn't have it. She made the rules and I broke them, then she took her second set of punitive rules and applied those, without an appeal from me.

Discipline was Mom's strong suit. Mom was Dad's strong suit. Dad had no technique to enforce family tranquility, he always said: "Go ask your mother." In essence, he was saying: "You are not getting it kid, how do I know? Because you will ask Mom, and Mom will say in English, Italian, and Spanish: *"No"

Corporal Punishment was right next to Capital Punishment and for good reason.  Mom felt that a little Corporal Punishment from her wooden spoon called ‘Gentle Persuasion' was to make me understand that Capital Punishment was not far behind! "Do that again and you're dead!" was an underlining message channeled through the wooden spoon and Corporal Punishment.

Mom did her charts and maps, sending them mentally and she did a very good job of it. "Here's where we are today, and next week is where you'll be when I knock you into it!" Yes, Mom was an excellent communicator. In the old days, there were few if any crybabies in the neighborhood. Why? Because the teachers had the authority to also provide, free of charge, their own form of Corporal Punishment. Such things as hair brush spanking, ruler numbness to the palms and ears that were lengthened were techniques Miss Langon would apply. Mom would announce to us as we stood ready before her to go off to school: "If I find out that the teacher had to discipline you when you get home you will get the rest!" God bless Mom, she had a way with words.

*No-translation: No.

Autunno Dalla Finestra Della Cucina.

Autumn is a very nostalgic time of the year for me. Looking back over 60 years ago, peering out of my grandmother's kitchen window, or mom's, there were certain clues to the time of year.

Growing up in an Italian-American neighborhood in Brooklyn, the fall was the most romantic time for nature and the rituals of life. If you looked out the three story walk-up and went to the kitchen window, which faced the back yard, you would see certain elements of life. One was the long pole that stood in the middle of the garden with three clotheslines strung across to hang the wash of the three families living in the building. I would watch the landlord mount and climb the pole to attach a fallen pulley or wheel to reconnect it, and think how could he climb that high and not fall?

If you looked out, you could see the tower of Our Lady of Lourdes, it's gray high bell tower slowly resonating throughout the neighborhood, wash hanging out all over the backyards announcing the Angelis. Christian, Muslim or Jew, you knew it was noon-time.

There was the last of the tomatoes as they grew imperfectly in looks but delicious in flavor, greenish and red, all destined to someone's windowsill and then jarred for a Sunday sauce.

In the Fall it was time to harvest the grapes, that time of year when wine and vinegar were magically created and the pride of a man's plot of land and devotion to his past. It was said that if you waited long enough until the first frost, the grapes would be at their sweetest. To present, someone with a gallon of the homemade vino was the greatest tribute one could give.

Grandpa would send over a gallon of homemade vinegar, where Mom would create the most delicious of salads, the taste stemming from the soured grapes!

But the most telling sign, the most defining tradition, and lasting icon were the fig tree! It occupied the most prominent spot in the garden, reigning over the tomatoes, zucchini, parsley and any other produce Grandpa grew. When the tree was barren in the Fall months, the cellar door would open and slowly large pieces of linoleum and cord would appear, slowing transforming the tree's natural shape into a mummy-like figure, as it was swaddled in the old carpet and then topped with a green bucket, with crisscrossed roping, awaiting the harsh winter. It was a sad reminder that the gloom of winter was about to descend upon the Brooklyn, and the casualness of summer would be transformed into the rigors of winter.

But in the end, it all began a cycle of old world traditions, mostly centered around the Church. There was All Souls Da, All Saints Day, that adopted holiday to Italian-Americans called Thanksgiving, and of course, the Christmas Eve feast of the seven fished.

It was a great time to be alive and the place was the best, Brooklyn, NY!

GOOD MORNING?

Not so fast, I’m going to the gym, and I don’t want to.

C’mon, who wants to jump out of bed in the morning and go somewhere where you have to sweat, and if you don’t, you feel guilty all day long? Who needs to be out of breath as if you are about to have a heart attack?

Being a creature of habit, things have to be aligned a certain way for me to apply myself to them. Be it food, business or even cleaning, I do things a certain way under certain conditions.

When it comes to the gym, I have a routine I follow. First thing in the morning I look for an excuse not to go, when I exhaust all those many options I reluctantly get dressed and go to the gym. It is here that things start as I park my car in a certain spot in a certain way, backed into the spot next to a curb. I pull out my cell phone and activate my gym app and head into the gym. I’m sure to greet the young lady behind the counter as I head downstairs to my play area and into the locker room and locker #33. It is positioned in a strategic place, lining up with the toilet, shower and TV mounted into the corner.

Once I put on my workout gloves and grab my water bottle, I lock the locker (That’s why we call it a locker) and head to the theater, where, as you step down into the bowels of the building there is a room with three giant treadmills, as Stairmaster or two and some other exercising equipment, overlooked by a giant movie screen.

Now the treadmill is designed to give you a near-death experience, taking you on a speedy walk to nowhere and quickly. As I speed along, the heart beats faster and faster, causing me to hang on and pray that this is not how it all ends for me, slumped over the hand rests with my toes scraping along at 3.6 MPH. I imagine the night watchman saying to the investigators: “We thought he was just showing off, and boy what stamina he has! Little did we know he had signed up for an eternal treadmill experience. The poor man and so old!”

Once I leave the treadmill, I head up to the crunch machine, the machine I worked out on every time, and it MUST come after the treadmill. Usually, the pound indicator is set at a much lower number than I do, and this makes me feel good about myself, thinking some young guy is doing less than me, then I realize it was probably an old lady who last used it. Damned old ladies are always showing me up! But this is a revolutionary piece of equipment, you SIT DOWN on this beauty and try to suffer at least an aneurysm of your tongue as it sticks way out, across the gym floor and into the trainer’s room! The idea is to lose weight by crunching your abs enough to explode from the inside out. If you have gas that morning it is advised not to use this equipment for it will send you into the stratosphere as you squeeze those muscle!

To round off events at the gym, I like to hang myself. Now understand going to the gym is reason enough to hang oneself afterward, but this goes a little further. It is a double-handled weight resistant apparatus that you must pull down on two handles and repeat the process at least 10 times, after each pull-down, you hang in the air by your arms.

Once I consider myself punished enough, missing precious hours of sleep and feeling out of breath, sweaty and can just about walk, I limp back to the locker room and locker #33, then home sweet home. As I drive back to my house, I wonder what is wrong with me, why in God’s name I would even get out of bed at 4:30am?

I walk into the house and there sits TLW (The Little Woman) eating her breakfast as she looks at me, well rested and not hurting, WHILE eating breakfast! Looking up she must wonder… “Poor dumbass”

BE KIND TO YOUR WAITRESS

Uninvited guest!

And she will be the kind of waitress you want.

Every Sunday at the local diner, TLW (The Little Woman) and I have our breakfast. Nothing fancy at the local fancy diner. I know it is fancy since the ketchup bottles are all clean.

I am a creature of habit, there are some things I like and need to have at my table along with the correct order and pricing: water and extra crispy French Fries in place of hash browns. Never was a hash brown fan since under the crust of the top of the potato lies the limp mush of potatoes, not pleasant to my pallet.

This Sunday I ordered a cheese omelet, tomato juice (no, I didn't slap my head to say I could have had a V-8, I did) and French Fries, and when the waitress took the order remembered: "Extra Crispy" she said before I got the chance to. This, of course, impresses me, she remembered from week to week!  Remembering is all well and good, delivering is another story.

As we chit chatted about the more important things that day such as Facetime with my granddaughter, the order arrived. Eggs and mushy looking French fries. Dropping the plate in front of me, I tell her to take them back, too mushy! She acts surprised but she knew as well as I did that she forgot. After about 5 minutes she returns and I am eating, then one of us realized we didn't get the juice that came with the order! I try to get her attention to no avail. As she sauntered from one end of the diner to the other, her eyes were always looking down, (must have been looking for dropped tips) and so it was impossible to get her. If I didn't want her attention, she would have been by my table about 10 times asking if everything was all right. Finally, we manage to capture a glance, her eyes sparkling in the lights of the dinner, her hair swept back as she began her arduous journey to our table, our eyes met and I said: "If I promise to eat all my breakfast, will I get my juice?"

I could have waived off the miscue of the French fries, and could have even overlooked the juice, but the diner was empty at that hour, there were no other customers, so it is imperative that I make her do what she needed to do to rectify the situation and my disappointment. If I don't, next week I will be treated with equal sloppiness, and I train my waitresses well, so none of that happens on my watch.

Funny thing is she never came near me again until she offered the check, which I took and left her usual tip. Just to let her know, we all make mistakes, I know I do.

WHY WRITE?

WHY WRITE INDEED?

 

I am not a writer, hardly even wrote before 10 years ago when I started this blogue. In my youth, I was busy making money for my family and doing what I could to further the lives of those with disabilities.

The more I sought to help the disadvantaged, the more an inner-self spoke up, creating a conscience that I never knew I had. I'm not complaining mind you, it all led to my writing and now I find a need or urge to express myself about the things that touch my life.

But there are days when there is nothing to write about, there is no emotion that pulls at my being, and so nothing to say. But this is good, like exercising your muscles, you do need a rest period, to recharge and reinvigorate the passions of life and writing.  More often than not, I will go back to what I wrote years ago and read it and wonder who wrote that? What was I feeling and wondering what motivated me to use certain words, and started to learn about myself and the chronicled opinions that I invested into? The more I read from the past the more I realized that writing is not just an everyday occurrence, it is something that is wishing to come forth like an overdue child.

And so some days I ask myself what I wish to write about, and some days I don't have that answer! So I don't write, instead, I close the laptop and get up and live a little bit more, no one wishes to hear or read from someone with nothing to say, even though some of the things I write about may be considered trivial by yours truly included.

WHAT'S TO SMILE ABOUT?

A LOT!

Just put down the newspapers, close Facebook and turn off the TV and Radio.

It seems to me I am a glutton for punishment, I can't wait to harm myself into mental anguish. I used to talk under my breath when Mom had something to say, she rid me of the habit using 8 inches of pine, one end scooped. She taught me to say it out loud and be brave for my words. I have learned to shut up and speak up, depending on what there is to say or not. But there is one other thing I learned.

Laughter is the best medicine, it shields the pain, it confiscates resentment, it borrows time to heal. Love is its helper, it tempers and eases the flow of anguish with understanding, when hate turns to anger, we need to reason with ourselves, who is our primary target to antagonize.

I love to laugh at myself, I'm probably an old coot who is blinded because he can't see himself as others do. To me, I'm in the prime of my life, to others: better get that door before the old coot dies to try to push it!

I know I've gotten old, all the young pretty girls pass me by and smile! YES! I'm that safe!

I enter a gym, in my gym shorts and sneakers, towel and drink, I'm going to push heavy weights, walk like a maniac on a treadmill, exercise, exercise, exercise, and what happens? All the young and middle-aged, along with a few oldies are holding the door open for me, giving me courtesies I never experienced before! THAT'S OLD!!!!

I now have a fear that if I go into a restaurant when my meal comes it will be cut up into little pieces so I don't choke!

I stopped going to funeral Masses, afraid that the undertaker might suggest to me: "While we're here…"

But I still have some teeth to smile with, the look at life and think to myself with my mental Turret's Syndrome every time I think something inappropriately funny to myself about someone's misfortune.

I find my best time to say something inappropriate is usually at a funeral or some solemn occasion that begs for respect and good deportment, of course, that will never happen out loud, but boy, I can't wait for the next one to come along.

DEAR READERS, (Both of you)

Many years ago, when I worked for a living, there was this one fellow worker who I loved to stop by and chat with. I would make it a point to stop at her office and engage in conversations with her. Monic was a writer, a good one who was an asset to the creative department. It was important to stop by to see her because not only was she beautiful inside, she balanced that with beautiful on the outside.

The purpose of my visits was to lift my spirits, making me feel better than I would otherwise. We would laugh at each other, the events that occurred in both the office and life. Recently on Facebook, she wrote a post that I would like to share with you.

“Now that the Jewish New Year and Atonement are over, I feel compelled to share this. Although the movie The Relief of Belsen is a dramatization of the British saving the agonized souls of
Bergen-Belsen, we were shocked to see real footage, after the saviors came in, of my beloved Grandmother. How did she survive?
The story talks about things my Grandmother told me.
How she witnessed a boy get shot and killed for trying to "steal" rotten food from a garbage can.
How she found a lice-ridden and ragged blanket to sit on instead of the hard dirt. She got up for a moment and a little girl sat on the blanket. Unlucky timing; a Nazi guard saw the child. Without warning or directive, he simply shot her and killed her and threw her small body in a pile of rotting dead. My Grandmother never ever got over that. She blamed herself for finding the blanket.
The lice so profuse that it looked like people's heads were vibrating.
The dead.. everywhere.
My Grandmother herself stole
Food from garbage pails. Thank the lord she never got caught.
She told me how after the British liberated the camp, many more died. The British, crying and horrified at what they saw, gave the starving people food. As a nurse, my Grandmother knew feeding long-starving people would lead to agony and death. They gave out cans of beans. And the starving died in their own shit, screaming in pain.
My Grandmother is the young woman standing to the right of the doctor who spoke out weeks after the liberation.
I am stunned. I am strong because of her.”

https://www.facebook.com/monica.santore?fref=ts

BLUE COLLAR WONDERS

Dad

Growing up on Long Island in the late 1950's and 1960's, I found jobs on farms: weeding, supermarkets (3), loading chickens into crates and dumping them on flatbed trucks, and finally in a factory. In all that time I got a better education from those I worked with than from high school and college.

The people I met were part of the Earth, the very essence of hope while they struggled, despair while they laughed and suspicious of anyone who was educated and had any money.

Often a young college graduate would show up and take a position of authority, and the rumors would spread, he was firing everyone, where they would be all on the streets.

"No college young punk is going to tell me how to do my job!"

I used to laugh at them because I was going to college. They looked at me different because I was working with them, I was one of them. Although their suspicions ran wild, they were only repeating history, the history of the poor and socially abused. They didn't speak English well, accents and poor grammar were part of the whole package. They smoked, drank and swore, they cried and always complained. If you saw them in their homes, they would apologize, thinking their poorness was a shame to be had. Cigarettes were a luxury and their only real vice in their lives.

There were widowed mothers, young and old, fathers who had physical disabilities, yet worked through the pain daily to as they say: "to put food on the table and clothes on their backs" It seemed the more I knew them, worked with them, shared break time with them and listened to them the more I realized what wonderful people they really were. No one had the financial power or arrogance to leave a spouse or abandon a family, they worked for those privileges of family life.

Not being rich myself, but not living uncomfortable either; we worked and contributed to the household while paying for college, I felt the pain they had as a poor class. Many of their children would not only not go to college, but would not even finish high school, as a pattern was continued of not having the money to continue for a better life.

But there was something about them that was very special, two traits that made me love them even more. The loved their family and were very patriotic. They had their own special take of the government, the armed forces and the rich. They imagined and only could because they could only compare to their own poor lives.

There was this one guy named Ron. He was an ordinary clerk, had two children and gave it all for his kids. He wore clean, well-starched shirts with old pants and shoes, scuffed and dirty. My Dad was the foreman of the shipping department, and Dad made everyone family, whether they wanted to be adopted or not. But when someone was willing, they became very attached to Dad. Dad would help them fix their washing machine, or mending something in their home, or helping them to fix plumbing or electricity, just so they could save money, money they couldn't afford to spend.

Often Dad would recruit me to help with painting or installing electrical chandeliers in their ceilings for free, giving them tubes and fixing their TVs' and often buying them clothes for their children. Christmas was often a secret Santa in the form of Dad for a poor family with no money and children. Mom never stopped him and seemed to never object to his need to do these things. Dad was a good man, he made his mistakes but he atoned in so many ways.

WHAT WE NEED

After watching the Presidential debate and reading the on-line comments on Facebook, it occurs to me we as a nation are missing something.

The amount of frustrated anger and disappointment in our political system which countless times has failed us brings me to the conclusion that we need to get a grip on reality. Who am I to think so, one with the rising sense of hatred and indifference I am seeing in this nation.

If there is one thing I would fear on my deathbed is to be abandoned, left all alone in this world, dying and no one holding my hand of helping me get through the process. I don’t know for sure if I fear death or not, but I do know that I feel like I don’t. I’m sure that will change to some degree once I have my exit interview.

On the other hand, I think about those of us who are alone, who do fear death and life as well. People who are shut off from socialization and the world at large in terms of human contact. I wish I could make an appointment with all of them and fulfill an obligation to visit and even comfort them, letting them know that they are not alone, that somehow God will provide for their fears and loneliness.

The world has become a loveless place. If you think that statement dramatic, just look at the state of affairs we have now. Obliterating whole states, killing off populations because of religious and political beliefs, discrimination due to color, gender, and even religious beliefs, and don’t forget our biggest crime: the abuse of children through starvation, abandonment, sexual abuse and wars that make them orphans, all children of God.

I remember once a few years ago, there was an old lady at a checkout counter of a local convenience store. She was old and frail, poorly dressed and all alone. On the counter was a lot of items that she was choosing to separate so that what little money she had she could pay for what was left. This was humiliating and distressful to her. The people directly behind her were impatient and cruel, expressing their disapproval as they held their coffee and rolls, cold cuts and snack foods. I thought to myself: this was someone’s child once, this was once a baby that parents loved and protected with hope for the future. What if they could look down now, what would they feel?

Love is a gift we give to each other, it is earned by our actions and it transcends all selfishness and enables our hearts and minds to comprehend a new day of life and joy. Why are we denying ourselves this wonderful gift? Why do we think that no one but us deserves happiness? I see many immigrants who are taking the place of what my grandparents did. They work as landscapers, street cleaners, and low-end jobs, their bodies weary and their minds clouded with fear of not being accepted. You meet one and they are polite, they are reasonable and smile. They do these things not because they feel inferior, they do it because it is in them to do it, it is natural. These immigrants just as they were a century ago, are proud to be Americans, yet their fellow Americans who feel entitled, work hard to keep them down. Someday their children will remember them not as immigrants but as Americans like those that came here a century ago, and they will shed a tear for the sacrifice and love and carry them in their hearts.

I REMEMBER MAMMA!

If you are as old as I am, you might remember a TV show titled: ‘I REMEMBER MAMMA’, about I believe a Norwegian family of immigrant parents and their American-born offspring. It had nice stories that spoke through the youngest daughter: Dagmar. Two of the actors were Peggy Woods as Mamma and Dick Van Patten as the oldest son Lars and the youngest child, Dagmar, was portrayed by Robin Morgan (who later became a radical feminist activist and poet).

Although the accents were different, they seemed to meld into a giant framework of life as I knew it, this TV life was a pretend life for mine.

Robin Morgan

 Mamma always wore an apron, and you always found her in the kitchen, where she reigned as queen of the household. There was always a warm glow that emanated from the room and gave off a warmth that held you by your heart and soul and told you: you were home.

Coming home from school, I would rush through the door and shout out: “Mom, I’m home!” It made me feel better from whatever day I had, from a good grade to a cuff on the ears by one of the Franciscan Brothers that patrolled the schoolyard and hallways of Our Lady of Lourdes. Throwing my coat down on a chair and dropping my book bag, I would scoot over to Ma and see how she was.

The warmth of the kitchen generated only good things, as the days grew shorter, the afternoon sun slowly giving way to the evening gloom, the smell of Mom’s menu grew stronger, and the anticipation of what this amazing woman could do would take over all my senses. As garlic would sizzle in a pan of olive oil, a large piece of fish sitting in the brown wrapper of the fishmonger’s doing, I would pepper her with questions. Important matters were discussed, what life was like for her as a child, or the inner workings of how this or that worked, causing her to pause gently and for a moment and assemble her answer. When she was done answering me, she would look at me and say: “Now go do your homework.”

When I was done with my homework, changed from my school clothes into my play clothes, I would go over to the kitchen table and watch her cook, looking at her hands and her gold wedding band that always held my curiosity as how it could do such wonders.

 

Mom & Dad

As I got older, many evening I would come home before I married and stepping off the train would head to my car in anticipation of a wonderful meal sitting in an oven waiting for me to come and claim it. That warm light would remind me that I was home, that she was there and how lucky I felt my dad was to have married such a great cook. He never complained about what she made of how it tasted.

There was one more thing that started to happen in later life. I discovered I could easily entertain Mom, make her laugh and that laugh became almost iconic in a way.

Yes, I remember Mamma!

DID I MISS SOMETHING?

I watched the Presidential Debate the other night and came away with nothing. I am neither a Republican nor a Democrat, instead, a mixed bag of conservatism and liberalism, and I agree as much as I disagree with all politicians.

As I watched the debate, I was looking for specifics as to what we do about those of us who need help in our lives: the homeless, returning veterans and their health, mental health, education, aging, and housing, all important. What I witnessed was the regurgitation of sex crimes by candidates and former presidents and baseless policy statements that have been for decades leading us to nothing but the same old crap. There were no real new ideas presented that had any traction to them, and certainly not solutions to problems we need to address.

But the biggest disappointment was the question of our returning veterans and the respect we should as a nation afford them. Where were the questions, where was the outrage that we do nothing for the returning veterans? Where is the outrage that America has forgotten them, the outrage that they have no housing or jobs or good medical coverage, yet they were asked to sacrifice their limbs and body?

The moderators at the debate sat on their high-horses and looked down like they are free of sin, clear of mind and have indeed all the answers, as they hide behind the walls of popular opinion, asking questions of their choosing. Why didn’t they address the homeless, the orphaned, the hungry and the sick, those without medical assistance because they are too poor? Why? Because the wonderful veterans are invisible in the eyes of the press?

We have made a big deal about discrimination, we have seen to it that this country is addressing the issue, but where is the veterans that matter? The veterans who have no jobs, no health insurance or a place to live?

We have a thing called Veteran’s Day, a wonderful tribute to all veterans. How much money is spent in commemorating veterans? Is it possible to dispense with the commemorations and spend the money on these people for their needs and livelihood instead? Maybe put them in forefront of American public concern? Or are we hoping the plight of the American veterans will someday just disappear?

Sorry to burden all of us about this, but it bothers me.

A SHADY PAST?

I’m a nostalgic man, enjoy remembering the past while not living it. I find comfort in things and memories of long ago. If I see someone without family or even friends, I think of how lonely it would be to die with no one in my life. I am fortunate to have people that are important to me in my life and cherish the thought of my family and friends.

TLW (The Little Woman) is quite opposite in the nostalgia department when it comes to things. Like me, she appreciates family and friends and cherishes them too. However, things from the past don’t stand a chance, namely my past.

R.I.P.

If we have an appliance that has a broken handle but is still serviceable, I will keep it and work around the disability while she will throw it out. I have a shirt with a stain on it, I keep it to wear on an off day where I don’t care what I look like. She has a thread missing and it is gone! Remind me to NEVER have a thread loose or missing!

I suspect she has a shady past, one filled as an executioner in another life. Maybe she did Genghis Khan’s dirty work or was the executioner at the French Revolution.

One day she brought home a Basile plant in a pot.  Every day I watered it and cared for it like it was a baby.  Then when my son needed to have a by-pass, I flew out to Burbank and was gone for a week. When I returned there was the plant, sick and dying. The leaves were covered with black spots and the soil was like sandpaper!

With tears in my eyes, I tried to nurture the plant back to life, watering and doing what I could to have it live for at least one pesto sauce before we did lower the executioner’s ax.

There stood the plant next to the window where it was getting intense sunlight most of the day, water every day and an eye upon how much pesto I could make when TLW said: “I’m throwing the plant out. There is no sense in trying to save it.” Of course, these words came crashing down on me, tearing my soul and heart out into little pieces, and as for her, she was glad to get rid of it.

THREE’S COMPANY

It was a rainy dreary Sunday morning as the effects of Hurricane Mathew pounded down around the Lake Shore Diner. TLW (The Little Woman) and I were out having a usual Sunday morning breakfast.

As we sat down in our usual booth, the young waitress came over and took our order, offering coffee first, and leaving us to our conversation. I was getting a feeling that we were watched, and as we chattered on in the booth that was aside from a large window that faced the main road, the feeling increased almost becoming disarming.

What's her name

I suddenly turned to look out the window, when I jumped sky high! At the end of the table, and behind the glass stood a scarecrow, courtesy of the diner, and the damned thing was looking in, right at me! The scarecrow, with blond stringy hair and large eyes, looked into mine unyieldingly, almost telling me it would stare me down.

TLW (The Little Woman) also startled agreed with me it was creepy.

"I was worried that TLW might become jealous, a blond sitting almost at our table and staring at me.

The owner, a sharp individual, fresh from making a lot of noise counting change from his register soon marched out to the scarecrow and turned it around, facing the road rather than me. This was a nice gesture as it might have been scaring him too.

As our breakfast was served and eaten, the wind slowly turned the damned thing sideways, now looking at me sideways.

"I guess she only has eyes for me! I said. TLW Agreed.

As the waitress came over with the check, I asked if it was only for two people, I wasn't paying for what's her name!

WHAT’S HAPPENED?

Mine is pearl white

On Saturday I went to Sunrise Toyota for service on my Prius. After 2,500 miles of a brand new Prius, Toyota needs reassurances from me that the thing works. It does, and well!

After checking in, I was directed to a waiting area where they offered one coffee, free of charge and therefore worth the wait. (I’m cheap on myself)

I took along with me something to read, a 35-page lawsuit that was filed against the State of New York to disengage a statute on Guardianships and Article 17-A. Although it is fascinating reading, it is a little dry. The car would be ready in about 40 minutes so it was a good time to do some out of the ordinary reading.

I could have taken a rather large tome about Alexander Hamilton, but instead chose to catch up with reading I needed to do.

As I settled in with my free coffee, my lawsuit, and a pen, I started to make notes and underline or circle as I went, pausing only for brief looks at people as they passed me. Aside from myself, there were eight other customers waiting in this rather large waiting room. As I looked at each one, all were empty handed except for one thing, you got it, a cell phone!

Eight people of all ages were looking at their cell phones, engrossed as the only movement was their thumbs moving up and down the screens. I could have set up a machine gun in the middle of the room and no one would have noticed!

What is happening, should leisure time be spent on social media and emails? Doesn’t anyone read anymore? Are the libraries and book publishers slowly dying because of the electronic age and social media? Are we destined to become so void of any humanity, no more reading and speaking to each other that we will become isolated beings?

Back in 1991, I eagerly embraced computers, having been responsible for having them brought to my company and creating a whole new way to be creative. However, good that may have been I am part of the demise I wail against, for it has indeed taken over my life, too!

HOLY MACKEREL AND HOLY COW!

In the old days of my childhood, religion was very important to everyday life, and you might say even healthy! It seems the Catholics were always fasting, if it weren't a Friday, it was some "Holy day of obligation". They even fasted on Sunday mornings so they could go to Holy Communion, causing more noise in the church during the mass because so many stomachs were talking at once!

Friday could be either a good food day or the worst, depending on what was on the menu. Mom made meals that were meatless, and many of them were depression era dishes she learned to cook from my grandmother. Mom's children didn't appreciate the depression or the meals: the beans and macaroni (pasta Fagioli), baked fish in a red sauce or fried and dishes that were inexpensive to make like lentil soup or peas and macaroni, fava beans and macaroni. If you notice I write "Macaroni" not pasta. If you used the word ‘Pasta' you usually said Fagioli after it. In those days, macaroni was macaroni, the Yuppies hadn't taken over yet to name Italian cuisine as the primo diet. HOLY MACKEREL AND HOLY COW! Mackerel for Friday and Cow for the rest of the week.

All these so called depression meals were hated by the kids, they were morgue-like and like the name, depressing. Today I crave those meals, I will go into an Italian restaurant that serves them and pays the owner's child's college education for a small cup of pasta Fagioli.

On occasion, Mom would really step up and make shrimp or scallops, and boy they tasted so good! But her most redeeming dish was sometimes made and sometimes bought from the bar down the corner in Brooklyn…

PIZZA!

Yes, Pizza was the go-to dish when the rebellion was brewing with the young ‘uns! The pizza was heavenly food, made by God for all good little boys and girls. You had pizza on a Friday and people would look at you in awe. I can still smell the pie, with that wonderful crust smelling so good, the oil, dripping down your arm and the sauce was always so hot that it burned the roof of your mouth! Boy, that was great! When Dad bought the pizza at the corner bar, the smell of the pizza cooking and the beer made me very hungry. However, I tried to hide my face since the bar was a target for my friends and me to whoop it up with our cap guns. Situated on the corner, the bar had three entrances, and we would run into the bar on the corner side and shoot at every drunk in the place, where they would yell: "GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!"

Tonight is Friday night, we will have pizza, not because I want it, but because my wonderful wife loves it, she went to Catholic school all her life.

IT DEPENDS ON HOW YOU LOOK AT IT.

Ever since I retired I try to do my share around the house, since TLW (The Little Woman) ran out of the house and back to work. My share is, of course, doing the housework that rears its ugly head from time to time.

Being a housewife for so many years TLW knows where all the dirt is, where to look and knows how much of it I think I'm getting. Our philosophy on cleaning the house may vary from time to time. Her approach is to clean what is dirty, my approach is to hold on, maybe we have something to hide or cover the dust.

I think that too many motions, too much trouble about something that will only reappear again in a few days, is a waste of the time in between days. Furthermore, why do I or should I pick up an object off a table and dust underneath it? I could see possibly dusting the object if left on the table, but to lift it and dust under it is just plain silly. I mean, how dusty could it be, a table is an object! Since TLW and I disagree so strongly, I'm seriously thinking of breaking things so I don't have to dust them and won't be encumbered by it in my attempt for a clean sweep! None of the things I plan on breaking bring me food, so really, why are they there?

When I started this disgusting habit of cleaning, I used to be well organized, selecting rooms for each of the 5 days and that was my schedule. The den Monday, the kitchen every day the living room Tuesday, etc. with all the rooms covered. Then one day a cold sweat broke out as I realized I had subjugated myself to housework every day! My first thought was to seek help from a professional, but reason stood before me, what if he or she was a housecleaning nut job? I could run away, but then how do I reach the refrigerator?

OK, my philosophy is a little challenging, you need two hands to dust, and a shovel IS necessary when planning on vacuuming, but these are the sacrifices we need to work out to work within reason. Besides, when TLW comes home it is dark, no one comes over, (I wonder why?) and I am the only one who sees it. "Please, don't trouble yourself for my sake"; as they say.

Recently I attempted to wash windows and in particular a large round top window in my den. Actually, TLW hinted it needed to be cleaned when she announced: "My, how dirty that window is!" I, of course, ignored the remark but made a plan to wash it, since it was 2016, going on 2017! I laid out my plan of attack, what tools I would use, what soaps and a squeegee with how to apply and wipe off everything. My plan seemed brilliant at first, as I conquered the outside. When I went inside and looked out, I saw the streaks and missed spots, while my hands hurt from arthritis. Maybe we need a nice set of curtains?

WHAT THE HELL!!!

It is a large dark room, the only light coming from the red exit lights that line the back wall and the grayish light from the screen in front of you. It houses three huge treadmills among other equipment, the latest thing in advanced technology for running yourself into the ground. There are so many buttons to push for the various programs that one can find, one fears if you push the wrong button, somehow you will be jettisoned into orbit around the moon.

Usually, because I am old, I need a tiny flashlight that I carry with me to read the different buttons and properly program the treadmill to my wants and needs. However, this one morning I forgot the light and went into this ‘workout movie theater' to do some walking on the treadmill. The machine asks many questions such as the type of workout, e.g. Cardio, Fat burning, running, etc. Then it enquires about length, weight, age and mother's last name, balance in your check book and mother-in-law's attitude. In this array of buttons, there is one that states: "Quick Start" that makes you hit it and no questions asked and sends you on the ride of your life! There are no buttons for ‘ambulance'

‘ambulance’ or “Help, I wet my pants!!!”.

Being how I didn't have the little light with me, I struggled to read the different buttons in the little light there was, and as I started to set up, suddenly from my right was this hand then an arm that reached over from the treadmill next to me and hit the quick start button! This young lady, probably in fear that the old guy wasn't living through the workout or perhaps even the rest of the day, decided she knew what was best for me, totally screwing up the program, as I galloped off to nowhere at the speed of sound. Struggling at great speed while trying to keep my balance, the programming is so screwed-up that I go from Cardio to weight and back to running like hell, and after a few minutes of this I am ready to tell her off, but she left the building long ago!

DRIVING, MISSED CRAZY

I hate to drive, never liked it, never will. I detested for 19 years driving to work every morning and evening.

One of the things that made me nuts was the need to sit in traffic and wait to move, slowly, bumper to bumper, moving slower than a snail, watching the seasons change before your eyes, and some of the disgusting habits some of the drivers exhibited. I won’t go there but imagine it if you will, as you are trying to munch down a roll or donut you shouldn’t be eating anyway. (Food always taste best when you shouldn’t have them.)

But there is the NUT factor to consider also. No matter what time during rush hour there is always someone who is seeking to set the new land speed record. They attempt this while putting on makeup, doing their nails or texting, and these are just the men!

There are two kinds of traffic days that I recall best. The wide-open roads and the bumper to bumper days. Bumper to bumper you go nowhere and do it slowly. The other way, the wide opened one is when someone or more decides they will make it to work before the even leave their house, driving at maniacal speed, cutting between cars, shifting lanes and scaring the Hell out of everyone. These morons find it necessary to get on your tail thinking it will speed up the traffic pattern, scare me or do both. Being stubborn I slow down and make them go around me.

All days are wide open ones, it’s just that people see it wide open and take chances, ergo, slowing down everything and everyone.

When it comes to rubber-necks, I often wonder what the fascination is to slow down, look at someone being body-bagged and seeing the total wreckage. Once their fascination is quenched, they step on it, blowing by the Boeing 747 flying above them, but now also behind. The next accident is just down the road.

LOWERING MY EARS

There are things I hate to do in life, going to the dentist, the doctor, and the barber.  Not for anything other than the wait they put me through. I think it is those little smocks they wear that dictate having your patient or customer have patients waiting. I the hate them all and when I die I am going to haunt them all.

My barber is a piece of work who learned his trade at the Genghis Khan school of barbering. He has an ‘Attack' approach to cutting hair, taking no prisoners, and don't even try to surrender.

I think he is on a bowling team, as he takes my head and like he was tossing it down an alley at ten pins, lowers it to trim. Once he decides to raise my head, I feel like Nathan Hale at his last venue. Grabbing the back of my shirt he yanks upward and I almost choke to death. I'm wondering if TLW (The Little Woman) put him up to it?

Then there is the comb, used like your basic garden rake, as he runs the comb from under one ear to over the other, taking hair, skin, and parts of both ears with him.

His best tool is his scissor, which he snaps in my ear to tell me who is boss now, clipping at breakneck speed, he covers my body with hair clippings, and while on the run, switches in mid-air to a straight razor, where he then chops around the ear, almost slicing it off so I will be able to hear at greater distances.

MAKING CHOICES

The Presidential Election is upon us, full-blunt in your face, God I hope to die before it’s over!

 I’m not supporting anyone here, just sitting back and watching the country spin down the drain. I hate both candidates, find them without any real substance and void of anything but large egos.

My reasons are many and private, if I do go into the voting booth, it will be between me and my conscience is how I feel the American people should take either poison.

But enough about candidates, what about the whole process of annoying me? Both candidates “approve” their messages while I am sick of hearing them. I’m getting calls almost up to midnight from pollsters wanting my opinion. (My opinion is DON’T CALL!) I’m sick of witty sayings about the other candidate and if I see one more sticker that says either Hilary or Trump, truly I will upheave where ever I happen to be at the time!

One candidate has lost almost One Billion Dollars and the other lost one billion e-mails, so who’s more capable? I thought for a moment there was a third party candidate but it turns out he is a candidate for class president of some high school in Indiana somewhere. I know this because I heard him try to answer some questions, which I think in all fairness to him, were too hard for a candidate running for class president.

Frankly, I don’t want to hear that another candidate approves the message he is sending out because he is only going to have to deny he ever said anything, and maybe at some point state that he will be “Fully exonerated in a court of law”.

This year’s election seems like a circus to me, both candidates are best suited for the Big Top, among the other clowns. Right now there is a national scare about seeing clown sightings, that my friends are only the campaign trails of the so-called candidates.

Pray for America.

HIGH TEA REVISITED

This is not my cup of tea!

You are looking at a man who was a participant of ‘High Tea’! TLW (The Little Woman) who attended a high tea yesterday returned home with samples of tea sandwiches, including the famous cucumber sandwich.

Never having been a participant of one before, ‘high tea’ is very nice, makes me feel whole again. The dainty little sandwiches must be eaten with a pinkie extension pointing toward  England, with porcelain teacups and doilies galore.

My tea experience was rather non-British in nature however as I did not follow protocol! No doilies, no porcelain, not even a teacup! I stuck out my pinkie, but who knows where it was pointing? The protocol was out the window.

The sandwiches were an interesting combination of different fillings with different pieces of bread, somewhat like a wine-tasting, only dryer. The cucumber sandwich which I liked, was an interesting mix of thinly sliced cucumbers and cream cheese of some kind, although I thought that these sandwiches are made with either butter or mayonnaise! There was smoked chopped ham and turkey and a mystery filling. But the best thing about the tea was the scone! Something that looked dry and tasteless was absolutely delicious! I’d go for the scones anytime.

So there you have it! High Tea a la DelBloggolo! I may not become famous from the experience, nor will riches come my way, but dammit, I wish they would!